


Not So Pleasing a Thing, After All

by airspaniel



Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Bruises, Episode Tag, F/M, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-10-31
Updated: 2007-10-31
Packaged: 2017-10-19 12:38:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/200927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/airspaniel/pseuds/airspaniel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>"My name is Christine."</i></p><p><i>"Yes, I know. Christine. Would you make me some of that plomeek soup?"</i></p><p><i>"Oh, I'd be very glad to do that, Mr. Spock."</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Not So Pleasing a Thing, After All

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted [here.](http://yumemiru-kikai.livejournal.com/13713.html)

For a moment, she thinks he’s asleep, lying with his back turned toward the door. She sets the covered dish of soup down on the nightstand and starts to leave, when a hand snatches her wrist and pulls her back.

He’s strong. _God_ , he’s strong. Stronger than anything that slight should be able to be. And the way his fingers dig into her flesh suggests he has no intention of letting her go.

“Mister Spock?” she asks, and it comes out as a gasp despite her efforts to steady herself.

His voice is quiet, controlled. As if it’s ever been otherwise. “What do you want from me, Christine?”

She blushes at the way he says her name, low and sibilant. “I – I don’t understand.”

In one quick movement he sits up, still holding her wrist tightly. She can feel the bones shift under his grip and she winces. He catches the pain in her expression, loosens his hold, stroking his thumb almost absently along the soft skin at the base of her palm.

“I want you to be happy, Mister Spock,” the words fall out in a rush, and if she weren’t so breathless she’d be embarrassed about it.

He stands up, towering over her, pulling her in closer to his body. “I am a Vulcan. I would find happiness to be most disagreeable.” the words are detached, but there’s something in his tone; something hot and nearly unguarded, and his face is so close to hers…

“Then I guess,” she rallies, “I want you…” He presses closer when she trails off, barely an inch between them and the touch of his hand is burning her like a brand. “I want you to be satisfied, then.”

He doesn’t smile, doesn’t flinch, doesn’t do anything but stare at her, eyes dark and liquid. His hand comes up, fingers tracing tenderly down the side of her face, and all she wants to do is lean in and kiss him; kiss him like she’s dreamed of doing since the first moment she saw him.

Her stomach flips, wondering if he’s thinking the same thing before realizing she has no idea about Vulcan sexuality; no idea what he might want from her, or how he would respond if she tilted her face up, letting her lips fall open and her eyes fall shut.

She does it anyway.

He lets go of her like he’s been burned.

“You should go,” he rasps. She leans in to protest, and his hand flies to her wrist again; this time squeezing hard enough to bruise as he pushes her through the door.

She hears the door shut, and the ghost of a whisper that might’ve been “I’m sorry,” but was more likely just the product of her imagination. Her fingers trace the ring of reddish-purple blooming around her wrist. There’s any number of salves and sprays in sick bay that can erase them in an instant.

She decides to keep them. A reminder to keep her mind on her work; to stop chasing after a silly dream that’s illogical and probably unhealthy and is never going to happen.

The resolution lasts exactly as long as the bruises do.


End file.
